The Hammer Does Not Fall
by Makalaure
Summary: Maedhros, reincarnated, tries to bring back to Valinor a shattered Maglor, all the while clinging to the dregs of his own sanity.


**A/n: Feedback is always welcome!  
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**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise. **

**The Hammer Does Not Fall**

**Chapter One**

His brother moves between the worlds, or so Maedhros hears. Like a miser clinging to his last piece of dull copper, he is little more than a body clinging to a spirit. So Námo apprised him, and so the keen-eyed Telerin elves aboard this grey ship mutter during their dinners, their breath rancid against each other's cheeks, when they think Maedhros is not watching them. "For surely he still _sings_," they say with sneers, as if Maglor's is a lamentable attempt at penitence. Perhaps it is. Maedhros still wants to grasp them by the scruffs of their necks and cast them into the cold, pitiless waves below. They would squeal like pigs, their flared nostrils sucking in stinging salt-water. He can do it; he is solid as a twisted oak and as strong. But he is only recently resurrected, and even toying with a paper-knife can, at this point, earn him curses and dour stares. An attempt at murder would ensure he remains in Námo's Halls till the end of Arda, and he cannot risk that. Not now.

The deck slants abruptly with an imperious wave, makes him look up from his position against the railing, and despite himself his breath catches. How long has he been standing here, senseless to everything but his reverie? For the shoreline is perilously close, and he can discern from a distance copses of trees, disquietingly still; bone-white sand, moulded into undulations by the water; what might be the remains of jellyfish, or other washed-up rubbish.

Gulls scream shrilly overhead; they pine narcissistically for attention, and Maedhros thinks they sound like wailing children (_oh, Sirion, Sirion_). He feels his heartbeat quicken, and his breathing grows laboured. His blood beats rhythmically in his ears, and he can hear _Ennor, Ennor, Ennor_ in its steady pounding. And once again he has come to retrieve something that was his, something he still considers his, and something he may not get back. For Maglor is here, or so Ossë informed him in Valinor.

Too soon the elves cup their hands around their mouths and holler for the anchor to be dropped, and Maedhros, in anticipation, clenches his right fist, which was granted with his new body, identical to the one he had in his youth. Tall and strong is he, with the grace of a stallion, and wavy, wine-red hair frames his fine, patrician face. His sharp, subtly slanted eyes glow like embers beneath a wide clear brow. Yet a scowl remains fixed to his lips, for his features are no longer a source of pride. In his careless youth in Valinor he was vain, and knew his form to be memorable for its great beauty. He would brush off his brothers' gazes, which were not entirely without envy, with a wave of his hand, and then ruffle their hair in pompous comfort.

His mind utterly ceased to be occupied with such things the moment he entered Angband and knew true fear. Useless was the name 'well-shaped one' in the treacherous face of the Black Foe. And he noted with disdain, after his re-embodiment, the way he would draw women's grudgingly admiring gazes, but he said nothing of it. If folk wish to stare, they can stare, for he is withdrawn and cares not for attention.

_I swear I will bring you back, little brother. _

He is the first to step off the ship, and taps his foot against the sand as his legs get used to movement on land. The air smells of salt and wet earth (_no, not carmine_), and he draws a deep breath before surveying his surroundings. It is the break of dawn, and the beach is lit with a sickly orange glow. In this light the trees ahead appear black like oil rather than green. He starts as he hears flapping wings near his feet. A large gull has landed on the sand and is picking at some limp seaweed. It lifts its head and caws indignantly at Maedhros, as if demanding he remove his presence.

Maedhros refuses to be humoured, and considers abandoning the elves, along with his breakfast. "You will not find him so soon!" one of them calls, leaning against the banister of the ship. When Maedhros begins to walk away, the other elf insistently shouts, "You will be more alert if you have food in your belly!"

In half an hour they are breaking their fast on steamed mussels, rice and small, sour oranges. Maedhros eats quickly, almost nauseous at the now-alien feel of food in his mouth, of the chewy, soft flesh of the mussels, the pulpy fruit that makes his tongue roll. But the fishy, salty smell is the worst, and he has to fight not to gag at it. During the first few days after his awakening in Lórien, he had eaten naught but dry bread with weak vegetable broth; his senses were overhwelmed after those _yéni_ spent without a body.

As he leaves with his small, leather satchel slug across his torso someone tells him, "You will not find him," and the words make him shudder with suppressed fear and grow angry. He abruptly pushes his hands into his trouser-pockets, says, "We shall see," not quite loud enough for the others to hear, and walks away. The wind quickens and stirs his hair, which he has tied into a severe ponytail. The strands get in his eyes anyway, and he curses softly.

For hours, he walks, heedless of his protesting stomach, his mouth twisted into a deep scowl. _I – no, we – have spent years waiting for you_, he thinks. _What is to me a few more hours, or days, or weeks?_ He had been so sure Maglor would follow him in death. For his brother was like a reverent shadow, always by his side, ready to offer a sweet smile or a disquietingly pitiless sword. He had the uncanny ability to swallow his pride and maintain a level head in the face of maelstrom. _Is he still the same?_

Maedhros can only hope so. Ossë had remained tight-lipped and cold about the matter, saying only, "He is not himself." Maedhros had wanted to shake him in frustration, and it seemed Námo had too, from his irked expression. Yet Maedhros hates them both, hates the Valar for their pitiless hypocrisy, for their small, insignificant acts that they haughtily label 'divine forgiveness', and his head is so filled with _hatred, hatred, hatred_ he thinks it will burst open like the exploding fruit in the forests of Oromë.

His mother wants Maglor to come back, as does Elrond. Both of them wish to see him, to drink in his appearance as thirsty folk drink cool water. They want to embrace him, to touch his hair, his face, to trace with fingers the fine lines around his expressive, thick-lashed eyes; they want to kiss his cheeks – once on each side, following the old, pointless custom – and breathe in his scent of musky sandalwood. Maedhros does not think his brother will smell of sandalwood now.

It is almost sunset when Maedhros halts and casts his head back. He sighs deeply and runs his hands over his skull, pressing down his damp hair, and decides he should head back. He has no problem seeing in the dark, but he has no desire for the elves to send a search party for him when they should be sending one for his brother.

He shivers, and realises it has grown cool. He is about to turn his heel when he notices, from the corner of his eye, a hunched figure perched on a low rock by the trees, apparently in deep thought. Maedhros squints at the spidery limbs and the lank dark hair, long enough to brush the backs of the person's knees. As if sensing his presence, the person lifts his head, and Maedhros gives a shout – for it is Maglor!

"Maglor!" he cries, charging towards him, arms outstretched, all dignity and dourness forgotten. Maglor – _is it really Maglor?_ – seems startled, and nearly falls sideways off the rock. He jumps to his feet and begins to scramble away.

"No, no, Maglor!" Maedhros says in despair, forcing himself to stop several feet away from his brother. "It is I! Maedhros!"

Maglor stops and eyes him warily, pursing his lips. His brow is puckered anxiously, and Maedhros wants to weep, to embrace him and not let go, to assure him of his safety. "Little brother," he says gently, extending a hand in what he considers exquisite self-control. "I have been given a new body and granted a new life in Aman. But my heart was sick with worry for you, and the Valar granted me permission to bring you to Valinor. You do not have to stay here!" he adds when he sees his brother's discomfort. "Say something, Maglor!"

But the elf before him says nothing. Maedhros thinks he is about to sob in frustration when his brother takes a tentative step forward, then another. Finally, when he is within three feet of Maedhros, he lifts a small hand – smaller than it ever was in his manhood – frail as a robin's wing, and touches the elder's cheek. Maedhros remains still, staring. For he is slowly realising, with an expanding sense of horror, that _his brother does not recognise him_.

The thin elf with blank, half-lidded eyes lifts his chin and says stupidly, "Aah?" and Maedhros thrusts his hand away and stumbles back with a cry. Raising an arm over his chest as if to protect himself, he stares as Maglor – or this thing pretending to be Maglor – plumps to his knees like a child and begins to hum to himself, idly drawing patterns on the sand with his fingers, as if his encounter with Maedhros did not occur.

Maedhros is shocked. No, he is repulsed. Disgusted. He feels more disgusted than he did when he first saw Maglor in the birthing chamber, wet and streaked with blood and spotted with what looked like lumpy wax, the twisted purple umbilical cord still stuck to his soft belly. Maedhros had been cowering behind a table in a corner, so revolted he could not rip his eyes away from the squirming, pink infant.

His brother is a seasoned scholar! A hardened warrior! This cannot be Maglor Fëanorion! In his blind distress he screams, "Madness does not become you!" as if Maglor can understand him and laugh at the desperate joke. Maedhros wants him to laugh. He wants him to laugh in his face and get up and dust his knees and say with the disdain of a prodigious artist, Oh Nelyo, do not be a fool, you philistine. Maglor has told him that before.

And he is, because _oh fuck, oh fuck, I left him I left him Ilefthimlikethis fuckfuckfuck _and Maglor is gaping at him vacantly now, as if Maedhros is some kind of curiosity and he is not quite sure what to make of him yet. Maedhros briefly scans the squiggles on the sand for any sign of a real pattern or intelligence and finds neither. They're just squiggles, such as those a toddler might make in his boredom.

"Can I bring him back to the ship like this?" he thinks vaguely, and reaches out and curls his long brittle fingers around his brother's upper arm.

This turns out to be a mistake.

Maglor's eyes dart from Maedhros' face to his hand – and then he tosses his head back, baring his convulsing neck, and utters a keening wail, not unlike a wraith's, and Maedhros quickly lets go and stuffs his fingers in his ears because, in the name of all the stars, his brother's voice is _loud_. As a baby Maglor was not fussy and cried little, but when he did, the vibrations would at times crack their father's precious stained-glass windows. It was very peculiar and not a little shocking. As Maglor matured into manhood his voice deepened and acquired a pleasant hint of huskiness, but it also attained a fantastic range which he controlled with exquisite accuracy. And if his little brother had lost that control, he had not lost his range.

Unable to bear the hideous noise, worse than the screech of nails on a chalkboard, Maedhros grudgingly uses one hand to try to cover Maglor's mouth. Maglor scrambles away and runs towards the sea. Maedhros follows him. "For heaven's sake, _shut up_!" he cries, grabbing at his elusive brother. Maglor evades him, surprisingly quick on his feet for someone so frail, and it is only with brute strength and the help of the forceful sea that Maedhros manages to tackle his brother to the soft sand beneath the waves. Maglor thrashes and struggles, his wails subsiding to pitiful grunts, and at length he chokes on some salt-water and lets out shuddering coughs. He smells awful, rancid. Maedhros is reminded of rotting flesh. He wonders what Maglor's vivid, black-and-red innards look like now.

When a hand strikes his jaw, unexpectedly hard, Maedhros makes a hasty, rather thoughtless decision. He curls his right hand into a tight fist and rams it forcefully into his brother's stomach. The body beneath him stiffens, shudders, and finally goes limp, and Maedhros drops his head and breathes hard, chest heaving up and down, up and down. Sweat crawls down his cheeks in slow rivulets, and he shudders. He has knocked Maglor unconscious once before, years ago. It was not an accident.

They were in the settlement his brothers had painstaikingly set up after his capture. Maedhros was almost healed in body, but he still wore a bandage over his stump. His mind was rotting, going black around the edges, with the memories of Thangorodrim (there was too much pain to think while he was there). He and Maglor were walking in the courtyard, and when they neared a slender tree in a corner Maglor had turned to him, meek as a dormouse, and said, with that infuriating, martyred look, "I will not ask you to forgive me." Maedhros had gone very still, peering into his brother's eyes. Then he growled, "Good, because I won't," and, with all his might, had smashed in Maglor's ribs with his metal-toed boot. There was a _thup_ and spreading blood and someone was screaming, and Maedhros had walked away without looking back.

They forgave each other anyway, because of the circumstances. Maedhros wonders if what he has done now is forgivable. It probably isn't. But he can't think about that now.

What will the Telerin elves do when they see Maedhros carrying his brother inside the ship, so thin one can see his jutting skeleton? They will be appalled. They will try to throw him out, say it's not worth taking this excess, useless baggage back to the Blessed Realm. Or...or should Maedhros bring him back at all? What is there for Maglor in Valinor save mocking faces and barbed tongues? Maglor is insane, but is he unhappy here? No, likely not...

"Damn it all!" Maedhros yells to the grey, cloud-strewn sky, punching the wet sand with his fist. "Did you not feel his grief, Eru Ilúvatar? Do you not have mercy?" His voice reaches naght but the rays of the setting sun.

His eyes drop to his brother's sallow face. Maglor's hair sticks to his cheeks like starved leeches, curled and thin and repellant.

* * *

They are shocked when he places Maglor gently in a large, comfortable chair by a window in the dining room. He sinks in despite his negligible weight, and his head lolls to the side. He is still unconscious, and some elves gather around in a semi-circle, maintaining a safe distance from Maedhros, who at length turns around and says, "Tell someone to draw a bath in my chamber." No one moves. Maedhros is growing annoyed. "For heaven's sake, _go_!"

Before he does anything else, though, he asks for a sharp kitchen-knife, which is handed to him with hesitation by another elf, and swiftly cuts off Maglor's matted hair at the neck. He can fix the crude style later.

Once in his chamber, Maedhros peels off his brother's clothes, which stick to him like a second skin, and throws them onto the floor in disgust. Then he gingerly picks his brother up and places him in the wooden tub, which is filled with hot water with pleasant smell of patchouli. Making sure Maglor's head stays above the water, Maedhros begins the arduous process of cleaning him. First he takes a pine-scented hair cleanser and scrubs the dirt from his brother's locks. Then he washes Maglor's face, neck, toes, and the rest of him, with an odd sense of familiarity. He has, of course, seen all his brothers naked before – more times than he would care to count. He feels an affectionate sort of possession, an idea that he alone has the right to invade Maglor's privacy in such an intimate manner, and realises he has not felt this in a long time.

When he is done and Maglor, now dry and looking more worthy of civilisation, is wrapped in a soft, cream bathrobe, Maedhros stretches and arches his back in satisfaction and tiredness. His brother's short hair gives him the look of a Man, and Maedhros wrinkles his nose at the thought._ It will grow back_.

He has to wait for Maglor to wake up before he can feed him. Maedhros does not eat his own supper, but sits by his brother's side on the bed, till dark eyes slowly open and there is a groan of discomfort. Maglor squirms in the unfamiliar environment before placing his gaze on Maedhros. "Has he grown tame?" Maedhros thinks, not moving for fear of startling his brother. Apparently so. Maglor sits up with some difficulty, places his hands in his lap, and lowers his eyes.

Maedhros feeds him warm milk and honey with a spoon. Maglor has grown surprisingly placid, and drinks without complaint. Occasionally Maedhros has to wipe away a drop of milk from his chin.

When the cup is empty Maedhros places it on the bedside table and tentatively strokes his brother's locks. The light from the candles around the room flicks across their faces. "You are such a child," he mutters softly. "Are you always going to need me to take care of you? To stop you from drowning in your gloomy, artist's thoughts? Mother always said you were too morose." As if in reply, Maglor reaches out and grasps a lock of Maedhros' loose hair, tugs downwards. He thrusts upon him a look so blank and yet so pleading that Maedhros pulls him into an embrace and wants – wants to cry. _What do I do? How is he going to live this way? Oh, Námo, tell me..._

He stiffens, then slowly pulls away from Maglor, looks closely at the thin face with pursed lips. No. No, no, no. He cannot, he _cannot_.

Suddenly filled with loathing, Maedhros gives a great shout and pushes his brother away, and begins to pace restlessly back and forth, back and forth. He turns to Maglor and cries with hot anger, "You stupid, sorry idiot! I wish I had never come here! How could I ever love this senseless sack of bones with no memories to speak of?" Then he sits on his chair by the desk, puts his face in his hand, and weeps like a child. He pictures Maglor's _fëa_ in Námo's Halls, then his new form in Lórien.

Raising his head, he hisses to his brother's still figure on the bed, "How I loathe you, you vicious, pitiless elf." And then fresh, hot tears spurt down his cheeks, and he hides his face, because Maedhros cannot love anyone more.


End file.
